Defunct Call Arm
by IKanS
Summary: Thor and Steven Rodgers, the antiques of the Avengers. They cheat Time and specifically Steve has cheated Death as we know it. Scientists can only fathom the possibilities of their feats, but not only that. The possibilities that there are others, like them, who have survived years, long beyond what they should have. From seventy years to a millennia, they could very well exist.
1. Chapter 1

1992, Seine-et-Marne, France.

The first government workers arrived in bulky vans and trucks. Reeving up a dirty cobble road, heaving heavy construction materials and equipment bounced and rattled the vehicles, shifting the drivers and passengers around their seats as they had arrived and parked out onto the spacious front lawn of the castle of Blandy-les-Tours. With the skies clear and the sun pounding down their already wet necks, they hauled their things across the lawn, through the former gatehouse, or the square tower, and stepped out into the court of a once marvelous castle. The architecture was pitiful; the cylinder roofs of the towers were invisible, or rather, nonexistent. The parapets* that edged said roofs and walls were now cluttered in a crumbly heap by the central tower they faced across from the entry way. The lower parts of the walls were scuffed, muddied up, and scraped from old farm animals and tools. The court house was musty and inside was what ever remnants the past owners had left behind, some tracing back to the 16th century.

The six towered beauty of a castle was now in shambles, but that was what the workers were there for. Advisers immediately surveyed the damage, inspecting every nook and cranny for the lost details they would need to restore Blandy-les-Tours to its former glory. Circling, then planning. It would be days before they would even think about moving, or even touching anything. Labourers, buff and lean ones, lined outside and inside, slowly setting up the appropriate spaces to lay out their utensils and plotting out a map for reference. It was tedious work; days went by, and then weeks. Every day, more and more little intricacies were found, changes were made, treasures discovered. It was like a walk through time, or a blast from the past. What excited the workers the most was what they could find in the keep of Blandy-les-Tours. Old weapons, clothes, books, and other oddities were wedged deep within, used as storage over the years; these finds were the light of the day, the very core of their interests. It even held a weaponry, although a keep was the last resort of defence, so it would not be so surprising. The discovery in itself was nice, though.

Once the restoration itself was managed, the next thing in order was to prepare the castle for tourists. Glass cases were brought in and set in rows, encasing a piece of jewelry or dagger. Wooden rails and ceiling structures stood strong and sleek with primed surfaces. Stone coloured the court, the different minerals displaying shades of nude hues that were easy on the eyes.

The keep weaponry was roped off only; no glass blocked the rusty metals. Iron, like blood, smelt strongly within the room. Even a small workspace for a smith was found, though very primitive. Only one weapon was set in the middle. Surreal and mysterious, it was cased in a tube of thick glass that reached the ceiling.

It was slightly dull from misuse, its blade a bit orange with rust. However, as a whole it was elegant.

A fauchard pole arm, shorter than average, with off white bindings wrapped around the staff, was all that was deemed salvageable, one-of-a-kind. Due to the dusting of time, researchers, swords smithies, even, were scared to mishandle the blade, afraid to clean it if it would snap or chip. The cloth was left alone, pitifully hanging from the pole arm's langet* where it wrapped around the metal, hiding it from plain sight.

It stood alone.

* * *

parapet*= Any low protective wall or barrier at the edge of a balcony, roof,bridge, or the like.

langet*= part of the autonomy of a pole arm. It connects the blade to the staff, using nails to hold the two together.


	2. Chapter 2

2012, Seine-et-Marne, France

Nothing wakes you up like a good shout, a yell of one who commands something of you. To show yourself, to aid them, to come hither, and to be subdued into strong hands, though not made for wielding. All is far in love and war; you aim, you pay.

Nothing is better than being called for war. Trade all of the centuries that have passed for war, and not even one tear would be shed, for no one deserves to live for so long, much less kill. Save one thing of importance or save all that makes such small meaning in the world. That is how one becomes selfish.

Eternity.

Hands warm the cold wood that was left to rot and be looked at, not touched. Only awed over, never worn out or, God forbid, nicked in the slightest. Air shifts past a head the had no room to breath, no oxygen to run it, no freedom from the hold of a filthy hovel.

First blood. Smooth, but old blood. A guard, fancy that, that stood in the way of the wielder. No control, but its not as if it was desired.

Freedom from forever. Tempting power with more power.

The air speeds, and suddenly stops to a low hum. Trapped, in a box of metal.

Freedom is being denied?

Reassuring ands tap at the head, letting out a low ring as thoughts stopped swirling, just long enough to register how... foreign things became.

Lights and softness of the resting place the wielder has chosen.

The wait for war is not as short as hoped. It is coming; the energy of many shifts from within and above, far above. Many for the taking. Shivers would exist, if allowed. This was an experience worth feeling, worth using.

Yet never ignore the unsettling gut instinct; the wielder could never soothe what had started before they came.

Not the right one. Not strong enough. Not able to conquer or submit to rule. A violation to all that is prideful in war. Desperation is one thing, the dawning sense of failure is imminent.

Never have been wise, but has always had a clear mind, one that can search hard for what is needed. This is not it. Withdraw.

Deeper, so that it becomes pointless to be used like a weapon. No weapon can choose who to serve, but it can be seen as an extension, a part of oneself. To become a part, in the last minute, was impossible, especially in a loosing hissy fit. Not the one. Not deemed worthy. Withdraw.

Air cuts into the box, and they leap, the wind sliced as the head holds steady. The touch for the severage of matter is never lost. Metal men, green men, red women. Black men, not like the physical carnation, but dressed in shadows, displays great archery skills.

A shield of many colours tears into skin and severs ligaments of necks and backs like they were dead leaves soaked from a hard rain.

Hammer.

Hammer of thunderer. Friend of the kind that are sentient. It whispers, Thor.

Thor, of legend, is right before you. Kneel.

Kicked away, clanking and clunking softly to the side.

Hammer, the head says, show me mercy. I wish to serve a greater being, of which may do as he pleases, as long as it is done with tenacity. Some spunk be damned, what is needed is some purpose to be used, good or bad. Hammer, give me what I cannot have, and what I long for since I had lost it.

Human biology. Magic, magic of any kind, any price, but not for death.


End file.
